{"product_id":"the-unaccompanied-isbn-9781524732424","title":"The Unaccompanied","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the prize-winning poet and former Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom comes a powerful collection of poetry that gives voice to the people of Britain with a haunting grace. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe meet characters whose sense of isolation is both emotional and political, both real and metaphorical, from a son made to groom the garden hedge as punishment, to a nurse standing alone at a bus stop as the centuries pass by, to a latter-day Odysseus looking for enlightenment and hope in the shadowy underworld of a cut-price supermarket. We see the changing shape of England itself, viewed from a satellite \"like a shipwreck's carcass raised on a sea-crane's hook, \/ nothing but keel, beams, spars, down to its bare bones.\" In this exquisite collection, Armitage X-rays the weary but ironic soul of his nation, with its \"Songs about mills and mines and a great war, \/ lines about mermaids and solid gold hills, \/ songs from broken hymnbooks and cheesy films\"—in poems that blend the lyrical and the vernacular, with his trademark eye for detail and biting wit.SIMON ARMITAGE was born in West Yorkshire and is Professor of Poetry at the University of Sheffield. A recipient of numerous prizes and awards, he has published eleven collections of poetry, including \u003ci\u003eSeeing Stars\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePaper Aeroplane: Selected Poems 1989 – 2014,\u003c\/i\u003e and his acclaimed translation of \u003ci\u003eSir Gawain and the Green Knight\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eThe Shout: Selected Poems\u003c\/i\u003e, was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award and his translation of the medieval poem \u003ci\u003ePearl\u003c\/i\u003e received the 2017 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation. He writes extensively for radio and television, has published three best-selling non-fiction titles, and his theatre works include \u003ci\u003eThe Last Days of Troy\u003c\/i\u003e, performed at Shakespeare’s Globe in London. He has taught at the University of Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop, and in 2015 was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford University.\u003ci\u003eLast Snowman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe drifted south\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edown an Arctic seaway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon a plinth of ice, jelly tots\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eweeping lime green tears\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earound both eyes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea carrot for a nose\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(some reported parsnip),\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebelow which a clay pipe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edrooped from a mouth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat was pure stroke victim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA red woolen scarf trailed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the meltwater drool\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat his base, and he slumped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto starboard, kinked,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egone at the pelvis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the buffet deck\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a passing cruise liner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estag and hen parties shied\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScotch eggs and Pink Ladies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas he rounded the stern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sailed on between banks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof rubberneckers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand camera lenses\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto a bloodshot west,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast islands vigorous\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith sunflower and bog myrtle,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esingular and abominable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Present\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shove up through the old plantation—larch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eout of season, drab, drained of all greenness,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewidowed princesses in moth-eaten furs—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand stride out onto the lap of the moor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRotten and rusted, a five-bar gate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elies felled in the mud, letting the fields escape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWinter is late and light this year, thin snow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehalf puddled, sun still trapped in the earth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esludge underfoot all the way to the ridge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd no sign of the things I came here to find,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eexcept in a high nick at the valley head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere a wet north-facing lintel of rock\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehas cornered and cupped enough of the wind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor dripping water to freeze. Icicles:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eonce, I unrooted some six-foot tusk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the waterfall’s crystalized overhang,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elowered it down and stood it on end, then stared\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat an ice age locked in its glassy depths,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat far hills bottled in its weird lens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese are brittle and timid and rare, and weep\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein my gloved fist as I ferry them home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d wanted to offer my daughter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea taste of the glacier, a sense of the world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebeing pinned in place by a diamond-like cold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat each pole, but I open my hand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand there’s nothing to pass on, nothing to hold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNurse at a Bus Stop\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe slow traffic takes a good long look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJilted bride of public transport,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealone in the shelter,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe fireproof bin and shatterproof glass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escrawled with the cave art of cocks and hearts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s late, Friday, the graveyard shift, you’re ready\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto dab blood from a split lip,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto hold the hand of cancer till the line goes flat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCardigan, sensible shoes, the kids\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith a neighbor, fob watch pinned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a medal to your breast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWinter sharpens the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe centuries crawl past,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enone of them going your way.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300395471077,"sku":"NP9781524732424","price":27.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524732424.jpg?v=1767741975","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-unaccompanied-isbn-9781524732424","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}